


sweet music

by slightlyworriedhuman



Category: The OA (TV)
Genre: Gen, Healing, Jesse POV, Non-Linear Narrative, Snippets, Vignettes, not s2 compliant, they deserve to heal and find happiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 10:59:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18445184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slightlyworriedhuman/pseuds/slightlyworriedhuman
Summary: The angel leaves in a cacophony; eventually, their lives are able to return to sweet music once more.





	sweet music

**Author's Note:**

> This was all written to (Almost) Sweet Music by Hozier; I heard the song and had to write immediately. This is not S2 compliant, because I wanted happiness for once.

It’s sweet music when he hears Steve laugh, the first time he has since the angel passed.

When he comes through the door, Steve’s eyes are wide and his face is flushed; Angie giggles helplessly beside him, sitting atop a pillow. Steve is on his knees before her, arms gesturing grandly; they sweep through the air like they’re filled with endless energy, occasionally resting on her legs, her arms, her face. Words are spilling out, grandiose and wild and vivid and so unbearably _Steve_ that Jesse can hardly bear how sweet it is. The energy, the tension, is palpable, and Steve and Angie are caught up in it, pushed and pulled by it, caught in invisible rapids that twine around them and fill their lungs with laughter and life. He knows that it’s something new, something finally come home to rest, and he’s filled with relief and gratitude that his friends have finally found it despite their troubles. When Steve pushes himself up to push his lips against Angie’s, brief but full of affection, Jesse smiles; it’s _right_ , and it’s the happiest he’s ever seen Steve. His friend has found an outlet for all the pain, and it’s turning into happiness, to love. Life has found a home beneath that scarred skin where hate used to reside; it’s new, and it’s brave, and it’s something he never dreamed his friend could find before the angel. Something has changed, an invisible energy unexplainable and unattainable by any others. He feels as if his friend has been born anew, cracked open and remade; it’s perfect, and it’s divine, and Jesse’s heart is filled with love for his friend.

It’s sweet music when he hears Buck singing to himself, a lilting tune he recognizes on some deep level.

When he sees him, he’s singing, sitting on the floor of an empty hallway with fingers tracing patterns on the floor. He knows what Buck is drawing without following his fingers; the memory of an angel’s runes are burned into all of their minds, are imprinted forever and ever like a divine brand. Buck’s eyes are closed, and Jesse sees him fully, lost in an aria of all and none and everyone’s and all his own. The notes echo through empty walls, a quality of etherealness rising from the copies of his voice. The music is like birds, swooping and flying and tumbling and alive, so alive. Every measure is a spiral up, every note a flap of wings; Jesse thinks of Rachel, thinks this is Buck’s true voice finally alight. When Buck’s voice crescendos, hands rising in a familiar crescent above his head, he sees the corners of his lips quirk up in a heartbreaking smile of relief; Jesse smiles too, feeling the emotion as if it’s his own, feeling the acceptance and gratitude of angelic wisdom, of otherworldly love. His friend has finally found belonging, and Jesse is filled with love for him.

It’s sweet music when he hears French speaking to himself, mouth slowly forming the words that his hand copies onto paper.

When he sees him, he’s hunched over a desk, pen gripped loosely in hand. As he speaks the words to himself, his hand scrawls across the paper, smooth and bold; the ink falls from the nib gracefully, as if being pulled into perfect form. As Jesse watches, French finally sets down the pen and straightens, eyes flickering to the window. Slowly, he stands; the words scribbled onto paper are repeated, low and rich like his voice always is, honey rolling over gravel. They’re words of self reassurance, of completion. of letting go; Jesse watches as French opens the window and takes a deep breath, holding it like it will cleanse him of all misery. He watches a tear roll own his face as he closes his eyes; Jesse knows it’s finally something new for him, nothing restrained or choked back. The words scrawled onto the paper are elegant barriers torn down and converted to art; there’s a sense of _freedom_ that Jesse can tangibly feel when French finally opens his eyes and smiles at the open night air, words behind him forgotten and cast aside. It’s _right,_ and it’s _free_ , and Jesse smiles, because what else can he do for his friend who has finally found release from bonds? Jesse feels French’s invisible self finally bloom, and its perfection echoes deep within Jesse, fostering love in his heart.

It’s sweet music when he hears BBA humming to herself, a simple tune he knows is more than any symphony could produce.

When he sees her, she sits before an empty canvas, paintbrush in hand; her head is cocked slightly, eyes appraising the blank white. A palette of purples and blues and browns sits beside her, the colours of her simple melody; a picture of an otter is pinned on the easel above her canvas, simple yet touching. As he watches, she finally dips her brush into the blue, hesitates a moment before the brush finds its way onto the paper, daubing colour in its wake. Her humming is soft, gentle as her soul; he swears he can see the notes reflected in her kind eyes, sweet as the melody. Though her demeanor is calm, he senses movement, unbridled and vivid, lurking beneath; with every stroke upon paper, there’s energy reminiscent of when she moved with them, calling the river inside a cafeteria long ago. Her paintbrush lifts from the canvas, and he watches as the colours seem to run together on the blank, streaming together to create something new, something invisibly beautiful. When she turns back, she smiles; it’s a release of energy unused, a release of sadness held far too long, a release of hesitation. He knows this is not a smile to pretend; this is a real smile, true release found through movement once again. She creates her own river, and Jesse is swept away with love.

It’s sweet music when he finds himself sitting atop the abandoned building, staring at the stars, speaking to the angel as if she’s right there with him.

When he speaks, he feels warm air brush against him, silent replies to his questions and comments. He speaks to the stars of his days, of how day by day things feel as if they’re getting better, a cut slowly stitching itself back together. He tells the angel of his friends-become-family; he relates to the stars his observations of happiness long sought, of freedom finally found. The air around him seems to hum when he speaks of them, as if sharing in his quiet joy that life has returned to them. Sometimes, he tells the stars of his memories, of things once glimpsed now obscured; he reassures the angel that his time with her is etched into his memory forever, written into his brain like it was carved with a fountain pen. He’s glad he remembers it all, all of the joy and pain and confusion; it’s proof of new life, of new love, of new beginnings. As he sits on the roof, eyes trained on the stars, he holds out his hand, as if reaching for a friend; warm wind blows around him, curls around his fingers, caresses his cheek as he smiles softly. It’s reassurance that things can begin again, _have_ begun again; it’s a promise of the river, of an angel eventually waiting for him, of things unknown and unseen and unforgettable.

He feels love, and it fills his heart with sweet music.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr @jesse-mills. Hope you enjoyed.


End file.
